


Flatbed

by Arsenic



Series: Discipline and Punish [47]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, None - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-28
Updated: 2007-11-28
Packaged: 2020-03-29 23:09:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19029838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: Brian drives a truck.





	Flatbed

On Saturdays, Bob would take the bus out to the prison early--prisoners were only allowed one visitor per visiting day, so Sunday was out--and catch up with Frank for half an hour before taking it back into a stop that was about half a mile from the garage. He would swing in to the gas station that was on the way there and get Vicky, Ryland and himself bad coffee and Krispy Kreme donuts and then continue on his way. He was generally early, but Vicky was consistently earlier. Bob wasn't entirely sure she wasn't sleeping in whatever car she was fixing at the time, living in the shop to cut down on rent.

On mornings when visiting with Frank left him uneasy--when Frank was twitchy rather than jittery, or when he wouldn't talk about Mikey at all, or when he sniffled all the way through the half hour and Bob couldn't help but think that there was nobody else in there who would know the signs for, say, meningitis--Bob would take his coffee and donut and go hide under a car or lean inside a hood. The cars were good and sat still and let him fix them. He could touch the cars, quiet their distress. It was a nice change of pace.

For the first few months, Vicky would just let him do this, which Bob appreciated. There was something to be said for another person understanding that need to be left alone with machinery that would respond to his ministrations. As they got to know each other better, though, she would sometimes come by and give him a new, actually hot coffee. Sometimes, if the car was being unruly and just making things worse, she would poke her head in and they would speak to each other in broken off sentences consisting mostly of pointing and "hmm"-ing and her handing him tools that he would try out, see if it got him anywhere.

On the worst days, when it was clear the car was going to need more work than Bob could possibly provide in one morning and when that was just fucking poetic and Bob really sort of wanted to run back to his old life where he'd mostly been taken care of rather than being the caretaker, on those days she would roll up her sleeves, say, "Let's get dirty, Bryar," and the two of them would disappear into the car until it was dark and the garage's phone was ringing and Ryland was calling, "Bob, Mikey would like to know if you've been run over."

Most of the time, Bob only felt like it. Then Vicky would drive him home and say, "Have a nice day off."

He would say, "You should take one, every once in a while," and she would smile. Bob was mildly convinced that Vicky didn't just think in cars, she breathed in them, too.

"Yeah, maybe," she'd say, and they would both know that unless Greta asked, Vicky would totally be lying to him. The business was hers from the ground up, paid for with a loan from the bank which she had nearly paid off, and a parental loan that she was just starting in on. It was her pride and joy and she seemed to love even the shit she hated about it. It was actually closed on Mondays, but even then, unless pried away, she would go in and deal with the stuff that couldn't get taken care of while the garage was open. Hiring Ryland had cut down on a lot of that, so Bob was pretty convinced that at this point it was mostly habit.

Bob would call Greta later, convince her to pry Vicky away. And by convince he meant say, "Greta, I think she may have converted her body to accept crude oil as a nutrient."

For the moment, he would let her off the hook, because Mikey and Tommy were probably upstairs playing with MG, and Bob was ready to shower the day off, take care of Frank's boys as best he could so that if nothing else was going right for Frank, at least he wouldn't need to worry about that. He _would_ worry, but they would be fine, and that was what really mattered. Gee hadn't yet had the heart to bail on the twins on his Saturday night shift, so Bob's very favorite part of the apartment wouldn't be there to greet him, but he wouldn't have much wanted Gee without his dedication to other people, so he could go along with that, for the moment.

When he got up there, Alex was actually there as well, which was becoming more and more common. MG trotted up to him and barked at him once. Bob had learned that it meant: "Come down here so I can lick your face."

"I'm dirty, young lady," he said sternly. MG needed a firm hand. He waved hello to the other guys and said, "Be back in a minute." More than anything in the world--okay, with the obvious exception of Gerard--Bob loved hot water pulling the strain out of his muscles and the privacy to enjoy that.

Mikey was in Bob's room when he got out of the shower, folded up on his bed with MG trying to fit in his lap. Mikey rested his chin on her head and asked, "How is he?"

Bob always wanted to lie when Mikey asked on days like this, but it seemed wrong, like adding insult to the injury of Mikey's inability to visit Frank. "A little on edge."

Mikey dug his fingers into MG's fur. "Did he say-- Is there anything--"

Bob waited, but Mikey just buried his face in MG's back. He said, "Mikey--"

"I fucking hate this," Mikey said, low and angry, the way he so rarely got, but with all the passion of someone who saved that sort of thing for special occasions. "I fucking hate him for being in there and the guy he killed for being an asshole and myself for listening to Gee when he said, 'oh yeah, no, no way we get caught' and Gee for saying it and myself for letting Frank touch me where it fucking mattered and you for being out here and being able to see him and that I don't actually hate any of you." Mikey's knuckles were white and MG was licking his face. He didn't seem to notice.

Bob said, "I--" and Mikey said, "I'm sorry, I'm-- I didn't mean that, you know I didn't."

Bob pulled a pair of pajama pants on and came to sit on the bed. MG nosed him, but didn't move away from Mikey, who was clearly more in need of her. He said, "You probably should."

"No, no--"

"I was so fucking angry those two years, so-- Your brother, your fucking soft-skinned, big-eyed, wild-hearted brother. I'd never cared before, not really. Sex was nice and could be found fairly conveniently, so long as I went outside the neighborhood, and I liked cars, not people, and things were fine. And then I got put away and some skittish, cokehead, _gorgeous_ asshole has to steal everything that matters from me without even knowing he's done it. I was pissed when he left. At him, at me for giving a shit, at my ring for getting me into the fucking mess in the first place."

Mikey nodded.

"You're not betraying him, Mikey."

"Everything I do out here feels like it," Mikey admitted.

The irony being that everything Mikey did, Bob knew it was just a little bit for Frank. Not wholly. Mikey had found himself admirably well. But part of Mikey was Frank, it was just that simple. "I have very specific instructions from him to make sure you eat. If I go out there and force Alex's cooking down your throat, is that going to feel like a betrayal?"

"Probably." Mikey smiled a little. "But one I can live with, I think." He herded MG slightly aside, scooted closer to Bob and cautiously curled into him a little. Mikey was still never quite sure of when he was invited into someone's space as opposed to when he was just tolerated. He so rarely wanted other people who weren't Gerard or Frank in his space that Bob didn't think he'd really had all that much opportunity to learn. Bob wrapped an arm around Mikey and held him carefully but tightly. Mikey shivered a bit under the touch at first, but Bob was pretty sure it wasn't from fear. Mikey had a lot of the same tells as Gerard and Bob knew every single one of those. Bob held on until Mikey stilled, and then longer after that. Mikey said, "Thanks."

Bob said, "Yeah, well. Yeah."

 

*

Sundays were the day that Gerard and Bob both had off. For Gerard it was a remnant of needing the day to visit Bob. For Bob it had been a job negotiation. He had said, "Sunday's the one day I could actually spend with my boyfriend."

Vicky had asked, "Does getting laid make you nice to customers?" and Bob had lied, "Absolutely." Vicky had never called him on the total falsehood. He was fairly positive she'd known he was talking out of his ass from the start.

Bob woke Gerard up with a pretty lazy blowjob, reveling in the way Gerard still touched the back of Bob's neck softly when Bob was blowing him, fingers full of awe and caution. When he was done, he reached over to the nightstand, where the collar was and fastened it around Gerard's neck, the correct notch having worn into a groove that Bob could find by touch alone. He asked, "Pancakes?"

Gerard pulled Bob down atop him and rumble-purred for a moment. Then he said, "In a little bit," and held tight. Bob stayed where he was wanted.

 

*

Bob made Bisquick pancakes with a dash of vanilla, like Ilya's mom had taught him. He did this nearly every Sunday because Gerard loved pancakes and Bob loved Gerard. It was a simple logical progression. Mikey also loved pancakes, especially with cinnamon in them, so Bob always made a few with cinnamon in the batter. Gerard had told him about the cinnamon thing. Mikey still sucked at asking for anything but what he really, really needed.

Tommy had insisted he didn't like pancakes until the day Gerard put his foot down and said, "You _will_ try my boyfriend's pancakes, ungrateful little twit, because they are the best ever," and Bob had tried to intervene because Tommy actually bent pretty easily to anything with them, too afraid of what would happen if they tired of him. But Tommy had just taken one and put some syrup on it--just enough not to look like he was trying to drown the thing entirely, which he clearly was--taken a bite and said, "Huh."

They had all said, "Huh?"

Tommy mumbled, "They taste pretty different when they're not burnt." Tommy looked like he expected to get thoroughly made fun of, but Gerard was simply frowning and Mikey was looking sadly at his stack of pancakes.

Bob just served Tommy up three more and said, "I should fucking hope."

Now it was a thing. With rare exceptions they all got up and had pancakes before going to church to see what Brendon had to say for himself this week, and hear Gerard sing in the choir, which Brendon had totally drafted him into after hearing him sing as he was helping at the center one day. After that, Mikey tended to go to the center and help out, or assist Greta in the kitchen, Tommy usually disappeared to parts unknown with Jon, and Gerard and Bob were left to their own devices. Bob sensed this was not entirely unintentional. Mikey and Tommy were good guys.

Bob walked over to the center and asked if he could borrow Brian's car. Brian was always at the center until late on Sundays, so Bob knew he wouldn't need it. Brian tossed him the keys and said, "Be back by midnight, young man."

Bob snickered. Brian drove a truck, a '98 Chevy pick-up that had seen better days but had come through for the center's needs so many times that Brian couldn't bear to give it up. Bob had done a little bit of retooling on it to help it continue to run somewhat efficiently and be able to haul whatever furniture/party goods/building supplies the center came into needing. Bob opened the driver's door, picked Gerard up by his waist and hauled him into the seat, handing him the keys. Gerard asked, "Um, did you mention to Brian that I was driving?"

"You'll do fine," Bob said. They'd officially gotten both Mikey and Gerard learner's permits a week and a half earlier, so now it was perfectly legal for Gerard to be driving the truck, so long as Bob was in the passenger's seat. Bob murmured encouragement until Gerard got them out of the parking lot, onto the streets, onto the highway. He told Gerard where to go far in advance and he could tell that Gerard was trying his hardest to show Bob he could do this. Bob knew. He'd known before Gerard ever sat behind a wheel. Bob had Gerard pull over when they were well out of town, in the forested, green part of Jersey. There was a rest spot--no bathrooms, no vending machines, just a place for cars to pull off the road if the driver needed to sleep. There were trees hiding it partially, if not completely, from the road. Bob twisted and found the blanket Brian kept in the truck for times when he decided he wanted to have a picnic or just in case he ever got stranded in a snowstorm with children. Brian worried about these things. He handed the blanket to Gerard. "Spread it out on the flatbed. I want you on your back, no clothes."

"Collar?" Gerard asked. Bob had made him take it off during church.

"The collar stays," Bob said decisively. He smiled a little when Gerard took the blanket and scrambled out the door. He'd already been hard.

It was early June, but the heat was already kicking in, the moisture coming off the ocean making it still, moist. It should have been miserable to slide onto the blanket next to Gerard, to bare his skin and drape himself over Gerard. It wasn't. Bob could burn to death while touching Gerard, and he didn't really think he'd notice. Gerard whispered, "Mikey will be _so_ pissed if this is how we end up fucking up our parole."

Bob kissed him, laughing. "Gabe and Matt would totally cover our asses."

"Literally," Gerard said, and kissed back. Bob tugged at him so that they were both on their sides, facing each other. He said, "I wanted you like this. In the sun. In the air. Let them see."

Gerard said, "Enough foreplay," and strained to position himself.

Bob laughed again. He shifted slightly, just enough to help Gerard get what he wanted, but not enough to make it so that Gerard wasn't doing most of the work. Gerard liked that, liked being in control, liked the intensity of doing things himself, of being able to take Bob without prep but also without pain. When Gerard found a depth and rhythm that worked for him, Bob held him close, and took what he liked, the presence of Gerard, the slide of his skin against Bob's, the noises he was now free to make and did, high and breathy and sweet. Bob worked his hand between their bodies, swiping at Gerard's pre-cum with his thumb, using it to lubricate Gerard's cock. He squeezed lightly. Gerard actually didn't take that much stimulation, didn't always like it, particularly not when he was doing his own thing, taking care of stuff from his end. Bob mostly just caressed, reveling in the feel of Gerard under his palm. Gerard rolled his hips a little, causing Bob to groan. "Fuck, _Jag_."

"Fucking jet fucking _plane._ " Gerard punctuated each word with a thrust down onto Bob. Bob couldn't help it, he came on the second "fucking." Gerard laughed, and allowed Bob to make him come.

 

*

Bob left the keys for Brian with a note: _I'll wash the blanket before I give it back._

Gerard signed it, _XOXO_.


End file.
